I still believe
by KHwhitelion
Summary: All his life, Dewey has been blamed, taken advantage of and forgotten by his family. This Christmas, he has finally had enough and asks the most unlikely person for help. But when Malcolm and Reese find out what he's up to, will they make things worse?
1. Chapter 1

**Whoa….this was supposed to be a one-shot….but ended up being three chapters long….**

**Anyway, as Christmas is approaching, I decided to write a fanfic in the spirit of things—so why not use my latest obsession?**

**I'm not completely satisfied with this, but it's a bit different than what I'm used to writing…..ah well, it isn't bad. Least I don't think so.**

**So yeah, enjoy this three part story, and Merry Christmas!**

* * *

His mom was yelling. Again. For something that _they_ did. Of course, that didn't matter to her. Being the second—and true, in his opinion—youngest member of the family meant that, if his brothers didn't want to get caught doing who knows what, they planted sufficient evidence and blamed him. Even though….a good….75 % of the time it wasn't his fault.

Curling his hand into a fist, Dewey slammed it down in his bed. How did this happen; that he became the family scapegoat? Reese, Malcolm….even his dad on occasion….it was like they were too scared to take responsibility for their own idiotic behavior. Actually….he didn't blame them for being scared. No….even he could see that. It was more like….well, he figured by this point in time, they'd have learned. If Francis, the king of all delinquents, could clean up his act, then why couldn't the rest of his family? His dad was….well, Dewey didn't know _why_ his father acted like a ten year old sometimes….but Malcolm and Reese? Where was _their_ excuse?

"Dewey! Come out here!"

Dewey groaned, his mother's shrill voice evaporating his train of thought. Swallowing his frustration, the dirty-blond boy put on his 'obedient' face, and went to meet his mother in the kitchen.

"Yeah mom?" He replied, eyes scanning the surrounding area for any evidence his family may have planted against him. It didn't look as though he were in trouble….but one could never be too—

"Here."

Dewey blinked; the flimsy envelope in his mother's hand taking a moment to register. "What's this?" He opened his mouth to say, but she, as usual, read his mind.

"I want you to mail Jamie's letter to Santa." She said, her voice in its commandeering mode.

"Letter….to Santa?" He repeated, staring at the thing as if it were a foreign object.

That's right. It was almost Christmas.

"Yes, didn't you hear me? I want you to mail your brother's letter."

His mask faltered for a moment. Yet another chore for him to complete. "But mom, I have lots of other things to—"

"They can wait."

He had to resist an eye roll. "But—"

"No buts! Now _here_." She jabbed it in his face.

Screw the mask. He snatched the letter from his hand, muttering a 'why is it always me?' under his breath. She always did this to him. Disrupting his personal agenda to do her evil bidding. It was almost worse than being faultily blamed.

_I am so sick of this_, he thought bitterly, stomping back to his room in search of a coat to wear against the chilling winter air.

_I wish_….

He cut the thought from his mind. What was the point of wishing for something? Wishes never came true. They were nothing more than childish ideals. And he was childish to hang on to them.

It wasn't like he could change the way his family behaved….

"….or….could I?" He whispered aloud, a thought striking him. Abandoning his search for a jacket, Dewey frantically began scrambling around the room in search of a piece of paper and pencil. It was foolish, he knew, but at this rate, he'd try anything.

The door creaked open, and Dewey's head shot up.

"Hey, Dewey" his brother, Malcolm, greeted. Dewey didn't reply, his hand scribbling furiously with the writing utensil.

"What….are you doing?"

He kept his eyes averted; if he got caught, not only would his last, desperate plan be exposed, but he'd become the laughing stock of his brothers for the rest of his life.

"Dewey, hey I'm talking to you!" Malcolm tried again, leaning forward to better see just why his brother was ignoring him.

"I'm just doing homework, okay?" He spat, hunching over the paper and hoping his brother would buy it.

Still hovering over him, Malcolm's eyes scanned the entirety of the 'situation.' Damn his giant brain.

"What's with the envelope?"

Crap. He forgot to hide the envelope. Thinking fast, Dewey said simply, "It's Jamie's Christmas list. Mom told me to mail it but….uh….my um homework got in the way of it."

Malcolm was smart, but then again, so was he. Now if he would just leave him alone, instead of standing over him like that.

"Well, I can mail it for you. Reese isn't here and I have nothing to do."

"That's okay, Malcolm, I'll do it later."

"No seriously, I don't mind. Plus it'll be a great excuse to take the car out for a spin."

"That's _okay_, Malcolm. I've got it covered."

This wasn't good. His brother was way too close to the truth for comfort. Grabbing the letter, he proceeded to shove the letter under his folded arm.

But his brother caught him, _and_ the envelope-stuffed-letter in the process.

"Hey!" Dewey cried, angry eyes shooting up to meet his brother's, "give me that back!"

Though Malcolm was the nicer of the two brothers, he held the letter over his head, just high enough so that Dewey couldn't reach. "I know what it's like to be swamped with homework, Dewey. And if someone offered _me_ some leeway, I would take it, okay?"

"No! No it isn't okay! Give me back the letter!" Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, the younger Wilkerson boy lunged at his brother.

"Dewey! What are you—ow!"

Younger or not, he'd grabbed Malcolm's arm, twisting it sharply in attempts to reach the Christmas letter. Normally, his brother's cry of pain would be music to his ears….but today, at this present moment in time, he could care less. He just needed to—

"Dewey! Malcolm! _What_ are you doing?!"

Dewey winced. He knew that voice.

"Mom it wasn't my fault! Malcolm stole my le—_Jamie's_ letter from me!"

"I didn't steal it! I was trying to help and he just attacked m—"

"Stop it both of you!" Lois bellowed, slamming her hands down at her sides. "It's bad enough to deal with this kind of behavior on a regular day, but so close to _Christmas_? You boys are unbelievable!"

It took ounce of Dewey's being not to explode. _He_ was being unbelievable? Malcolm was the bastard who—

"Is this what Jamie has to look forward to in the future? You two are supposed to be his role models! Do you want him growing up thinking this is how normal boys react?"

_Resist the eye roll_….Dewey told himself, _resist the eye roll…._

"Mom…." He heard his brother try, a tone of persistence in his voice, "Jamie isn't going to act the way we do during the holidays—at least not for a few years."

Lois quirked an eyebrow. "Oh, and what makes you say _that_?"

For once, Malcolm surprised the younger boy. "Because mom, he knows—at least he'll think—that Santa's watching him, remember? He'll be trying to be good."

A small lump formed in Dewey's throat, as his eyes traveled from his mother's furrowed brow to his brother's pleading eyes. The tension was so thick, a chainsaw wouldn't have penetrated it.

"_Please_ Malcolm," his mom said after a moment, "that never worked on any of you boys; why should Jamie be any different?"

"Mom, you know as well as I do that none of us ever believed in Santa, right Dewey?"

Dewey flinched, then cursed himself for letting down his guard. "I…." he started, mind racing to come up with the right word.

Apparently, he wasn't fast enough, as once again, Malcolm kept right on talking. "What I mean is, you've already done the whole writing the letter thing. And you're even mailing it. Keep this up and eventually, he'll be that perfect 'golden boy' every Christmas….." His voice trailed off; for once, having run out of things to say.

Surprised but pleased, Dewey took the opportunity. He needed that letter back.

"Mom," he started, turning on what his brother Reese called 'the cute' "I really hate to interrupt, but I've got a really important project due in two days and I'd kinda like to get it done tonight." He waited for her expression to soften. When it didn't, he added, "So I can help you decorate later."

His mother's face didn't break into a proud grin, like he'd hoped, but there were faint signs of a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "You're a good boy Dewey." She said simply, before frowning once more at Malcolm. "Why can't you be more like him?"

"What?" Malcolm shot back, baffled by how quickly the younger Wilkerson had turned their mother on him, "Mom, I wasn't doing anything!"

She opened her mouth to protest, but Malcolm kept on talking, "I was just offering to mail the letter while Dewey finished his homework—how is that wrong?"

Somewhere through his—what Dewey thought to be a pitiful attempt at pleading his case—Lois had begun massaging her temples; a behavior both boys rarely saw. After a moment, she sighed, and lowered her hand. "Dewey, your brother's right."

_What?_

"Come do your homework in the kitchen. Malcolm—go mail that letter."

Dewey's breath caught in his throat, his eyes widening as panic began to overtake him. This hadn't been what he'd wanted! "Mom, please! I'll do it! Just let me finish my—"

"Don't be ridiculous. If your work is that important to you, you should be grateful to your brother for offering to help. Kills to birds with one stone, you know." She raised her hand once more, thumb jerking behind her head towards the kitchen. "Now get going. I'm holding that decorating thing to you, so make sure your work is done before your father gets home, okay?"

Dewey could barely hear himself think over the sound of his pounding heart. This was not good. "Mom!" He cried, in a last effort to change her mind, "You can't—"

"Don't tell me what I can and can't do, mister!" Her eyes were back to scowling, in that domineering way that read 'you won't win this.'

Biting his lip, Dewey forced himself off the bed, slinging his back pack—which had been previously residing on the floor—over his shoulder. He thought he heard a faint 'that a boy' somewhere in the background, but couldn't be sure. His surroundings had become a panicked static of scratchy noises and anxiety.

There was no way out of this. Once Malcolm read that letter, he knew he was doomed.

"Way to kill _three_ birds, mom." Dewey hissed, only loud enough for him to hear.

* * *

**Well, that's it for part one. Stay tuned for the other two chapters!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Here's chapter two. A different character POV!**

* * *

After another two minutes about bitching about who cares what, Lois had abandoned her little lecture; obviously remembering there was something more important to do. Of what, Malcolm couldn't be sure.

And quite frankly, he didn't really care. When it came to their mother, the males of the Wilkerson family had long given up trying to learn what went on in Lois' head.

However, Malcolm's younger brother was not quite as difficult to psychoanalyze. Not usually anyway.

But this whole letter ordeal….

"Wonder what he didn't want me to see…." The genius boy uttered, turning the envelope over in his hand. It was a cheap brand: flimsy white paper that was easily translucent when held up to a light source. On the off chance Dewey had hidden something amongst Jamie's Christmas list, Malcolm decided to test his theory. Raising the piece of poorly made paper over his head, he nearly yelped when its inner contents came toppling over his head. _It's…still open?_ He thought, eyes darting around to check for any….methods of surveillance his brother might have hidden that could record his near-girly shriek.

Confirming he was in no danger of black mail, Malcolm proceeded to pick up his youngest brother's letter, all the while putting his brain to work. The envelope was open. Dewey had been frantic about homework. But the envelope wasn't sealed. But his brother had been writing something down. But the stamp was already on the envelope. But he'd been attacked when he took the letter from Dewey's hands….

Malcolm gasped, bolting upright and swiveling towards the bed.

He should have realized how….unusual it was for a Wilkerson boy that wasn't himself to be worrying so much about putting his homework first….especially when it involved Jamie. Malcolm knew all too well how Dewey had made a point to look after his littlest brother—since their parents were often….busy.

So what….

He notice a half crumpled, messily written piece of lined paper lying above the covers, and hesitantly picked it up; no doubt what Dewey'd been writing before he walked in on him.

Dewey had a knack for 'throwing curve balls' at him and Reese—even Francis on a good day—so he should have expected this.

But….reading over that paper, a strange, unfamiliar feeling came over Malcolm.

It was….the feeling of regret. Of shame. And for the first time in almost ten years….of sympathy towards his younger sibling.

* * *

_Dear Mr. Claus,_

_I know you haven't heard from me for a while….actually, I think the last time I wrote to you I was five….but I want you to know that I'm still here, and I'm sorry for not writing yearly. A kid my age feels a little silly writing to you, you know? I mean, I'm technically not even sure you really exist. My brother insist you're not, but since when do they know everything?_

_Actually, Mr. Claus….or Santa—can I call you that?—my brothers are kinda what I wanted to talk to you about. Well, to be honest, I'd love to talk about my whole family, but you're probably busy with Christmas and other children who are much younger than me, so I'll stick to talking Malcolm and Reese. _

_I'm assuming that song about you seeing everyone when they're awake and asleep is true, right? If not, I bet you've still heard about my family before. Everyone has at some point. They're….alright we're—but me only sometimes—always causing trouble. Breaking the law….terrorizing neighbors….check your naughty list, I'm sure they'll be there._

_Anyway, Santa, I was hoping you could do me a favor this Christmas. I know I'm not the best of kids, but I didn't really know who else to go to. I can't call child services—we're barely under their radar as it is—and the police….well….that should speak for itself. Mom and dad do what they can but….they're a whole different issue. It's just that…well….I never get a break from my brothers anymore. I'm starting to feel like a walking punching bag, you know? Heck, I'm even used as one sometimes. They treat me like crap; they're never nice to me. You know they made me make their beds for a whole year? And they even cheated me out of my supposed reward. It isn't fair! Other families don't have brothers like they do! Why me? Why do I always have to suffer? _

_So….here's what I'm asking: Is there some way….maybe….you could make my brothers be nice to me? Even if it's just for a little while? I don't know the limits of your abilities: only what I see in movies. If you can't….I don't know what I'll do. Go try to live with my oldest brother? Run away? Actually make those calls I said I wouldn't? _

_Please Santa. Please help me. I'll do anything you want! I'll be on my best behavior until Christmas—and even some time after that if you want. _

_Just….please do me one favor: don't tell anyone else I wrote you this letter—not even Mrs. Claus. I know that sounds mean, but you can never be too sure who's listening._

_Again, I'm sorry for not writing for all those years, but if you can do anything to make my life a little more bearable, I would really really really REALLY appreciate it._

_--Dewey Wilkerson._

* * *

**TAK.**

The letter slipped from Malcolm's hand, fluttering to the floor. However, he hardly noticed; his brain frozen in a turmoil of emotions. He knew this _should_ be funny—a twelve-year-old writing to Santa Claus? That was ultimate blackmail if he ever saw it—but he wasn't laughing. Wasn't even thinking of it. All that passed through the teen genius' mind were four, anxiety-strewn words: '_what have I done?'_

Knees gone slightly weak, Malcolm sank back onto the bed, head in hands with disgrace at himself. Something he thought he'd _never_ feel. All the years of causing havoc—not just to Dewey but almost everyone—and not once had he felt an ounce of regret.

So why was one ,_damn_, childish letter tearing at his heartstrings?

"I guess our family is _that_ bad." He murmured, his shoulders slouching even further. _I mean, if Dewey's even asking _Santa_ for help_….He couldn't finish the train of thought. It was just....too hard to comprehend. Too….painful….to think about.

"Knock knock!"

Malcolm's head shot up; then dodged sharply to the side in anticipation of Reese's fist making contact with his face. In a half-daze, Malcolm whirled around, strangely furious at his older brother; despite this being a daily thing.

"REESE!" He snapped, slamming his own hand down at his side, "What the hell are you doing?! Don't you know the effect that kind of behavior can have on people?!" His shoulders had started shaking, but he hardly noticed.

Reese blinked, taken aback by his brother's unusual behavior. "What's the matter with _you_?" he spat back, determined to be the aggressor. Walking until he was directly in front of Malcolm, Reese held up a once again clenched hand. "You know I hate it when I _miss_."

"Shut up Reese. I'm not in the mood."

Pulling away his hand, the darker-haired boy folded his arms, a cheeky half-smile on his face. "Aw what's the matter? Fail your first te—OW!" Without warning, Malcolm sprang from the bed and shoved his brother away. Hard.

"Malcolm, you _jackass_! What was that for?!" Reese hadn't fallen over, but he held a hand to his now throbbing chest. "Do you _want _a—"

"It's Dewey, okay?" The words spilled from his mouth before he even realized he'd said them. _Way to be a girl, Malcolm._

Reese didn't laugh. He didn't continue ranting. He just remained standing, almost looking….concerned? Was that even possible?

"Something happened to Dewey?" Reese asked hesitantly. Okay, there was definitely a level of worry laced within his words.

Taking this as a sign he cared—somewhat anyway—Malcolm sighed, stooping to pick his younger brother's letter back up. "Yes….well no…." he began, trying to word it in a way Reese would understand. "I mean, not yet. He—"

"Dammit Malcolm, _did_ something happen or not?! It can't be both!"

Reese's response struck Malcolm as a bit odd, but he reasoned it was actually out of genuine care. Better just show him then. "Here." Malcolm said, shoving the piece of paper in Reese's face. "Dewey wrote this. It's…." he paused, the words like barbed wire on his tongue, "it's his letter to Santa."

Reese stopped, his face a blank slate as he gaped at the piece of paper. Slowly, his eyes brightened, a devilish grin slinking across his face. Malcolm cringed.

"He's still writing letters to _Santa Claus_? Are you serious? Man, this is even better than the time—"

"Reese!" Malcolm cut off, waving the paper frantically, "This isn't funny! It's….it's….it's _our_ fault! _We_ drove him to do this!"

His older brother's smile faltered. "We…..did?" He asked, not quite catching on.

Exasperated, Malcolm grabbed Reese by his shoulders. "_Think_ about it, Reese! What kind of horrible things have we put Dewey through so that the only person he feels comfortable confiding is doesn't even exist!?" He was only inches from his brother's face; eyes shining with apprehension and desperation. "What kind of family does that make us, huh?!"

At the word 'huh,' Malcolm managed to invade Reese's personal bubble, earning him a sharp shove in the chest. Expecting a follow-up, Malcolm tensed, his teeth grinding together. Today was certainly beginning to repeat itself, wasn't it? Indeed, his older brother's hand curled; his arm pulling back as if to swing.

Yet, instead of that all-too-familiar bone-bruising impact of his fist against Malcolm's shoulder, Reese chose to snatch the letter from the genius boy's hand.

It took Malcolm a minute to register that his brother had, in fact, missed _on purpose_. Something just moments ago he said he hated doing. And, well, choosing something with words on it as a substitute prize. Still in a panic—but no longer for his physical safety—he studied his brother carefully, watching with surprise as the older boy's eyes darted back and forth….as if he were actually _reading_ the material.

It was five minutes, seven seconds and thirty-nine milliseconds before Reese spoke again.

"What…." He said slowly, locking gazes with Malcolm, "….what are we gonna do about this?"

A smile tugged at the genius' boy's mouth, but he repressed it. "I don't know." He replied, slightly shocked his older brother was actually taking this seriously, "But we'd better think of something."

* * *

**Not really sure I like how I ended this chapter. I don't usually write as Malcolm and Reese….but this story got out of hand, it wasn't supposed to be that long so I'm sorta kinda not entirely sure I know what I'm doing. I know WHERE this fic is going, so don't worry, but how I'm gonna get there, well we'll see.**

**So yeah, your feedback is much appreciated! I've never written a MitM multi-chapter fic before!**


	3. Chapter 3

5….4…..3….2….

The digital clock beeped; the time now reading six AM.

Morning.

_Christmas_ Morning.

Dewey groaned, pulling the covers over his head. Normally, now would be the time to get up….to bolt into the living room and maul the wrapping paper off whatever contents lay inside the presents scattered under the tree. Yet, this time, things weren't normal, as, a few days prior, he'd been caught in what very well could be the worst mistake of his young life.

To make matters worse, his brothers hadn't breathed a word of it since then. At least….not to him. He shivered, curling tighter around himself. Whatever it was they were planning, Dewey knew for a fact it wasn't going to be good.

Which was why he chose to ignore the irritating buzz of the clock and pretend to sleep.

He said _pretend_, because, quite frankly, he hadn't been able to sleep all night; his mind a continuous racing state of panic and anticipation.

This was going to be a _great_ day.

"Dewey!!!!"

He groaned, squeezing his eyes shut tight. That was Reese's voice.

"Come on, Dewey! Wake up!"

And _there_ was Malcolm.

_Well,_ Dewey thought, noticing with rising dread that the sound of his brothers' footsteps were rapidly nearing, _here we go_.

Cringing, he braced himself, well aware of his brothers' somewhat painful methods of getting him out of bed. There were usually two options. Either get jumped on by Malcolm, or dragged by his feet, courtesy of Reese. Judging by how fast they were approaching, and the fact that there were, well, two of them, it was pretty much a given Dewey would receive _both_ methods.

So when he received a gentle tap on the shoulder, he was more than a little confused.

"Dewey?" Malcolm asked. The mattress sagged—he must have sat down.

"Is he in there?" Came Reese's voice, sitting by Dewey's still curled feet.

For a moment, Malcolm didn't respond, but the tapping stopped. "I dunno." He said finally, sounding a tad….concerned?.... "he might still be '_asleep_.'"

Under the covers, Dewey's eyes widened.

They were on to him.

"Dewey….we're not going to hurt you."

Damn Malcolm and his genius brain.

"Yeah Dewey, we just want to….show you something."

He didn't know what made him poke his head out from the safety of his blanket, shattering his feeble guise of being asleep. Maybe it was how….calm his brothers sounded. Or how genuine concerned they seemed. Or maybe it was because he'd exhausted his capacity to sit still. Whatever it was, Dewey was now staring into the sea-blue eyes of his brother, masking the fear in his eyes with fatigue.

"What….what are you guys talking about?" He asked meekly, forcing a yawn. Want to or not, it was best to stay on his guard.

Malcolm….smiled….at him….then exchanged looks with Reese. "You'll see." He said, extending a hand, "just come on."

_What are you doing?!_ Dewey's mind screamed, _you can't trust them!_ He knew his inner thoughts were right, but to be honest, he just wanted to get whatever 'punishment' they were planning over with. Besides, mom would step in before things got too bad….right?

"Mom and dad are still asleep, so we need to be extra quiet." Reese told him.

Crap.

Sighing heavily, Dewey swung his legs over the side of the bed, shivering as the cold air met his bare feet.

As if telepathic, Reese pulled two socks from his pockets and threw them at the younger Wilkerson boy. Alarmed, Dewey's head shot in his direction, confusion written all over his face.

"Just put them on." Reese demanded.

In no position to argue, Dewey obeyed, immediately feeling relief as the winter chill ceased. "Uh….thanks." he muttered, standing up.

Reese nodded, smiling. At his side, Malcolm did the same.

"Ready to go, Dewey?" He asked.

_Say no! _Say_ no! _"Um….sure?" he answered, ignoring his protesting thoughts. Something seemed….different about his brothers. Something….he wasn't expecting after exposing such an embarrassing secret about himself. Something strong enough to pull him from his bed, and follow them to the kitchen.

Where, once again, he was caught off guard.

In the center of the table sat two large tubs of ice cream: one chocolate, the other cookie dough. Next to them, lay a translucent jar of chocolate sprinkles, and a brand new bottle of hot fudge syrup. Across from said bottle, a jar of candied cherries, accompanied by at least four tubes of whipped cream were just waiting to be devoured.

His eyes as round as the cherries themselves, Dewey turned to his brothers, mouth gaping like a fish. "W-what….ice cream….why….sprinkles?" He stammered, too in awe to properly form a sentence.

The grins worn by Malcolm and Reese increased tenfold and they headed towards the feast, beckoning for their younger brother to follow.

"Come on! The ice cream won't eat itself!" Malcolm chirped, waving a scooper at him.

This was crazy. His brothers were offering him ice cream. Lots and lots of ice cream. And with no strings attached?

This couldn't be….

"Are you coming or not, Dewey?" Reese asked, bringing the younger boy back to the present.

He blinked, exhaled, then nodded, dashing over to the chair Reese had held for him. "I am I am!" He assured them, still skeptical but not about to pass up the taste bud tingling feast before him.

"Excellent!" Malcolm exclaimed, ecstatic to the point where it was almost scary. "Now, which flavor do you want? Chocolate? Cookie dough? Or _both_?"

* * *

Halfway through his monstrous sundae, his older brothers sprang yet another surprise on him.

"Reese," Malcolm said, gaze shifting towards their Christmas tree and the mountain of presents stacked beneath, "would you do the honors?"

"I'd be delighted to, Malcolm." He replied, already on his way over.

Dewey watched the two, alarm replacing his sugar-induced anesthesia. There had to be a catch. There just had to be. His brothers were _not_ this nice. Not to him at least.

He opened his mouth to call them out on it, but a large….wrapped….box dropping promptly in his lap quickly ended that.

"Is this….he asked hesitantly, struggling to peer over the box at his brothers"….is this….for me?"

Reese laughed, ruffling his brother's hair. "Don't be silly, Dewey!" He chuckled, "of course it is! Now open it up!" He encouraged, reaching over his brother to pick up a stray cherry that had fallen from the jar. "There's a Christmas special on in half an hour, which gives you just enough time to test your prese—"

"Okay that's enough!"

Reese and Malcolm froze, startled by Dewey's unexpected outburst. Malcolm, having regained his senses somewhat, said, taken aback, "enough of what, Dew—"

"Don't play games with me!" Dewey cried, springing to his feet, present falling to the floor. "I know you read my letter! I know you know I still believe in Santa Claus! Why aren't you torturing me for it?!" The last few words were shaky; breath having become ragged. He was being stupid, he knew, but at this point, he didn't really care.

"Dewey…." Malcolm tried again, holding up his hands, "what makes you think we would torture you?"

The younger boy scoffed, hands clenched tightly at his sides. "Do you even have to ask that question?!"

Malcolm shut his mouth.

"That's what I thought."

Reese, who had been silent for some time, stepped forward, hands up like his brother's, but arms more open. "Look, we know we're not always nice to you….but you can't assume that our first instinct is gonna be to make your life miserable."

"Y-Yeah." Malcolm added, having regained his voice. "I mean, sure, we do it a lot, but that's cuz, well, you were always so good about it, you know? You rarely tell on us so we assumed you were okay with it."

Dewey rolled his eyes. Apparently his wasn't such a genius after all. "You shouldn't assume, Malcolm. That just makes an ass out of—"

"You and me, I know." The middle Wilkerson boy finished, hanging his head. "Dewey, I'm…." he cast a glance at Reese "…._we're_….sorry, okay? We had no idea how badly things had gotten for you." He had moved closer now, joining Reese with open arms. "I know it's not gonna be easy to forgive us….but…." he paused, waiting to see if Dewey would once again interrupt. When he didn't, Malcolm went on. "….we were hoping that Christmas would be a good place to start."

Dewey stared at his brothers, taking in their….apology. It was true: forgiving them _was_ a lot to ask, and it sure as heck wasn't easy. Yet, standing there, observing the two older boys….remembering all they'd done for him….proved to Dewey—at least somewhat—that they really and truly cared for him.

They really did want him to have a merry Christmas.

"Ah what the heck!" He squeaked, shrugging his shoulders nonchalantly, "This has been fun. I guess I can try forgiving you. For now." He added, shooting his brothers a warning look. They, however, grinned at him….then did something he never would have expected.

They _hugged_ him.

Stranger still, he didn't pull away.

He just….enjoyed the feeling of family they'd managed to create, and how, for the first time in a long time, he felt accepted. Wanted. _Loved_.

Closing his eyes, his face melted into a genuine smile, and he whispered, "Thanks, Santa."

* * *

**Well, that's it! **

**I'm not sure if I like how this story came together. I think I may have rushed it. I dunno. I don't usually write such fluffy stories, but I felt like Dewey needed some love.**

**Let me know what you think!**

**And Merry Christmas, everyone!**


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